Every writer must self-criticize to exist.
I am slowly getting closer to the truth. Well, whatever, to intimacy.
A life cries meaninglessly, tirelessly, waiting for a hope to drop by.
What could my ramblings serve anyone? Are books just massive 100 pages imaginary ramblings of insane disturbed people?
So many choices and I doubt I am making any of the right ones.
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bright stars shine only when it's dark.
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